Feargol began to cry. Kaelin patted the boy’s back. ‘All right, let us dress warm and take to the snow.’
A bitter wind blew across the waters of Sorrow Bird Lake, moonlight flickering on the crests of the tiny waves as they lapped against the ice forming around the shoreline. Snow lay thick on the branches of the pine trees bordering the shore, and a heavy silence hung over the winter land. The night sky was brilliantly lit by a full moon, around which stars glittered diamond bright against the impenetrable blackness of the heavens.
At the centre of the lake was a small, wooded island. Just within the tree line stood a roughly built, sod-roofed hut. Hazy smoke drifted from its cast iron chimney. In the open doorway stood a small, slender woman, a pale blue and green shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her white hair – normally tied in a single braid – hung loose, the cold breeze rippling through it.
The Wyrd’s spirits were low, and she felt old and alone. The Redeemers had found the path to her spirit, and she was running out of tricks to thwart them. Spirit journeys now were fraught with peril. Despair touched her, and she fought it back.
Pulling shut the door she walked out to the frozen shore, the snow crunching beneath her booted feet. She shivered, though not with the winter cold. She could feel the dark spirits hovering around her, waiting. By now they would have sent killers to find her, cold-souled men who would ride north and seek to enter Rigante lands. They would not find it easy. Call Jace did not allow strangers to travel the inner passes. The Wyrd sighed. She did not doubt they would find a way. Circling the small island she returned to her hut. The fire was burning low, but she did not build it up. Too much heat and she would fall asleep. Then they would find her spirit as it wandered and, in her weary state, snuff out her life like an unwanted candle flame.
It was most galling. These Redeemers saw themselves as so deadly. They believed themselves all powerful. The truth was that the Wyrd could, if she chose, kill every one of them. Aye, that was tempting! She could become a creature of avenging fire, and burn their souls to damnation. Would it not advance the cause of good to destroy them, she wondered?
‘Aye, and therein lies the path to your own destruction,’ she said aloud.
The power granted to her by the spirit of Riamfada all those years ago had come at a price. ‘It is born of love,’ he had said, within the tranquil setting of the Wishing Tree woods. ‘It is of harmony, and joy. You may use it to heal, to enhance, to bring together. Never to destroy.’
‘I don’t want to destroy anything,’ she had told him.
‘Let us hope that is always true.’
Oh, there had been times in the past when she had wished to cause harm. When the Moidart had betrayed Lanovar to his death. When the greedy Bishop of Eldacre had tried to have Maev Ring burned for witchcraft. Evil men who deserved death. Yet the temptation had never been as great as now. Is it just because my own life is threatened, she asked herself? Is my desire merely to save myself ? The Wyrd hoped it was not.
She gazed around her small, single-roomed hut, her eyes lingering on the objects gathering dust on the shelves. There was an old green cap that had belonged to Ruathain, stepfather to Connavar the King, and a bronze cloak brooch Connavar’s mother had given him when he was twelve. Alongside the brooch lay a bronze and silver wristband which had been worn by Vorna the Witch, long ago when the Rigante were kings of the highlands. There were other items: scarves, belts, jugs and cups. All had been owned by heroes of the clan. Nothing here was worth more than a single chailling in the markets, and yet they were beyond price. She had but to touch them, and her mind would fill with colour, and she would hear the voices of their owners drifting down through the centuries. Closing her eyes she would see fragments of their lives -Connavar fighting the bear to save his crippled friend, Ruathain holding his sons in his arms, Bane gathering the army to defend the homeland . . .